


reverb.

by thychesters



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Birds of Prey (Comic), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: 'cause i'm having a good time (having a good time), Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Domesticity, Don't Stop Me Now, F/M, First Meetings, JUST KIDDING they’re back together now, Lazy Mornings, More tags to be added, and i scream from the top of my lungs what's going on, being self-conscious in a relationship due to tabloids, dickbabsweek2020, he said french toast but also first babs can play with his hair if she wants, he was only LIGHTLY stabbed barbara he's fine, late night phonecalls, lazy mornings? lazy mornings, so i wake in the morning and i step outside and i take a deep breath and i get real high, they broke up but also did they, we should get some legit tags here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: reverb: when a sound hits any hard surface and reflects back to the listener at varying times and amplitudes to create a complex echo.dick and barbara through the ages, before, after, and everywhere in between.written fordickbabsweek 2020.
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 71





	1. history.

**Author's Note:**

> this one was written during a four hour drive all through voice dictation in a notes app. let me tell you, having to translate what notes thought i was saying was a trip, but this was a solid way to kill time, lmao. either way, this idea has been bouncing around in my head for a bit, and while it wasn't executed quite the way i had envisioned it, i'm content. 
> 
> enjoy some baby dickbabs!
>
>> day 1: history.

He's sitting alone when she sees him. 

She's supposed be back in daddy's office either doing homework or reading her book, but she'd gotten bored and decided to go on the hunt for some snacks—maybe pretzels or M&Ms, depending on what the vending machine by the bullpen has to offer.

Typically, whenever she comes to the station with daddy and he's busy she has to stay with Uncle Harvey, who sometimes daddy says is a bad influence. Harvey usually grumbles and mutters something about how how he's a stellar influence, and daddy always rolls his eyes and says, _yeah, sure._

She's about halfway down the corridor when she spots the boy at the end of it. He has a blanket over his shoulders; it's colorful and intricate and faded and worn in a beautiful kind of way, and it looks like both he and it have been on that bench for a while.

He looks familiar, Barbara thinks, and it takes her a minute to place him. She recognizes him from all of those posters and flyers for the circus, the same one she'd bugged her father about going to for a good two weeks, to which he always said _maybe_ , which at this point she knows is just a nice way of saying _no_. That hadn't stopped her, though, because the circus was exciting and had elephants, a trapeze act, cotton candy, and basically anything a nine-year-old would be enamored by and would likely drive her father up a wall.

They hadn't gone.

Daddy had been hesitant about telling her why, but Barbara already knew; even at the age of nine she was no stranger as to how dark the city of Gotham could be. So she watches him, for a moment, the boy from the circus, whose face she knows but name she doesn't, the three quarters she has warming in her palm. Eventually, Barbara settles on pretzels and watches the boy out of the corner of her eye the entire time.

She goes over to him slowly, not entirely certain what she wants to say to him.

"Hi," she settles on, voice barely more than a whisper. The boy looks up at her but doesn't say anything. Barbara shuffles from one foot to the other and thinks about walking away. "I like your blanket."

The boy looks down like he'd forgotten it was there. "Thanks."

He hasn’t told her to go away or leave him alone, which she takes as a good sign. He eyes her as she moves to sit beside him and draws the blanket tighter around himself. The bench is smooth and warm, and she makes sure to seat her self close to the edge so her feet just barely grace the floor and she notices his don't touch it. 

"I'm Barbara," she says, because that's the polite thing to do, daddy always said. Plus, it doesn’t seem like the boy is about to start conversation. When he doesn't respond at first, she's fully prepared to carry a one-sided one, but then he whispers,

"I'm Dick." _That’s not a very nice name,_ Barbara thinks, but she doesn't say that. She’s heard her daddy call Uncle Harv that a few times under his breath, and his tone is usually a little annoyed. 

Barbara looks down at her feet, at the wall across from them with all its posters and bulletins, and the other detectives and officers milling about, and then back at him. "You're from the circus, right?" She sees Dick frown and pauses because the expression makes her stomach hurt a little. "Sorry."  


"'s okay."

He doesn't look at her and doesn't say anything beyond that, but she thinks his eyes look so sad. Daddy's look the same way sometimes when he picks her up from school or gymnastics or comes home after work, but doesn’t really talk about it. It isn't a very good look; it’s a look with a lot of hurt and Barbara finds she doesn't want to see Dick make that face ever again. She isn't quite certain as to why. 

"I didn't go," she says. "But I would have liked to see the elephant."

"Zitka," Dick says with the tiny hint of a smile, though so his eyes are still sad. "Her name is Zitka. You would like her."

Barbara nods. She doesn't ask about his parents or how he feels, and instead just offers him a pretzel. He hesitates only for a second and then pulls one from bag when she offers it and murmurs a thanks. They sit in silence for a few minutes and Barbara thinks about telling him not to worry, her daddy will find the man who did this, but then she thinks about the last time she said that it was to a girl a little older than them, maybe thirteen, who said maybe if her daddy and his men did their jobs like they were supposed to, she wouldn't have been there in the first place. 

They munch on pretzels and Dick plays with the edge of his blanket. Barbara pushes her glasses back up her nose. She decides it's not his fault he's not very talkative right now. She probably wouldn't be, either. She looks around the bullpen, listening to the hustle and bustle of the rookies and other detectives and the secretary who keeps dancing glancing over at them from her desk. She gives Barbara a little smile. 

Barbara moves and reaches for Dick's hand where it's fallen next to him on the bench; he freezes but he doesn't pull away. His hand feels rough in hers, but she holds it anyway.

"I'm sorry about your family," she murmurs, he's probably heard it a hundred times already in the hushed tone adults like to use, and still the thought of losing her daddy makes her hurt. She knows what it's like to lose a mommy because her own left, but that's very different and she didn't lose both her parents. 

And so she sits there for a while, homework forgotten and left for tonight while she talks about everything and anything that comes to mind, Dick interjecting to murmur his own thoughts on occasion, the two holding hands on a bench in the middle of the GCPD bullpen.  


She doesn't know how long they sit like that there for, but it must be long enough to get her father to come looking for her. She's still holding Dick's hand when daddy comes up with her backpack and she doesn't know what to call the expression on his face when he sees them. Dick looks up when she stops talking, peters out mid-sentence and his shoulders fall as he looks away from her dad again. Daddy tells her to go get her coat and she tells him she'd like to sit with a Dick for a little longer, please. Daddy shakes his head and tells her to go say goodbye to Uncle Harv and that he'd like to talk to Dick for a moment. Barbara realizes there’s no point in arguing, but when she goes to stand Dick holds her hand a little tighter. 

Barbara squeezes back. 

He lets go. 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything and instead bends back down to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Her glasses are askew and her hair has to be getting in his face and in his nose, but he doesn't complain about it or make a big deal. 

"Bye, Dick, it was nice to meet you," she says. 

"It was nice to meet you too, Barbara," he whispers. As she goes to get her coat and buttons it up, she sees her dad crouch down in front of Dick, though she can't hear what he says. Dick glances at her over his shoulder and gives her a little wave. She smiles and waves back just as her daddy stands back up. He puts his hand on Dick's shoulder and gives it a little squeeze and, while Dick looks sad he doesn’t look as upset as he did earlier. 

Barbara loops her arms through the straps of her backpack as daddy holds it out to her, and then takes his hand to follow him out to the parking garage; she glances back to Dick just before the elevator doors close. 

"What's going to happen to him now?" she asks and daddy’s head shakes a little. 

"I don’t know," he says, which means he does but he just doesn’t want to tell her. This is usually the part where she starts asking too many questions, or at least enough to make daddy sigh and grumble and pinch the bridge of his nose.  


"He's just so sad," Barbara says. "And I don't like it. I think we should help him."

Daddy squeezes her hand as the elevator doors open and he leads her into the garage. "That's what I'm trying to do, Barb," he says. His voice sounds tired, the kind of tired he gets after the rough cases mommy used to tell him she wished he would quit, or maybe take some time for himself. It's a kind of tired Barbara's used to hearing. 

"I know." Barbara looks up at him all the way up at him from where he stands, so much taller than her as he pauses to fish out his car keys. "Where is he going to stay?"

Daddy waits for her to lay her backpack on the seat beside her and buckle herself before he answers. "That isn't up to me; for now he has to stay at the station, and then I think one of the social workers you met last week is going to look after him," he says, as vague as possible and closes the door. 

Barbara's frowning and playing with one of the buttons on the jacket while her dad rounds the car and climbs into the driver seat. 

"Why can't he just stay with us?" she offers. "We have enough room." 

Their home may be on the smaller side, but she's sure if all else fails he could stay on the couch, or maybe even in her room with the air mattress they don’t use a lot if it came down to it. Daddy looks back at her in the rearview mirror as he pulls out the spot. 

"It doesn't quite work like that, Barb, but it's a nice idea." 

Barbara folds her arms and more or less pouts out the window.  


"Well it should. He's a kid and he shouldn’t have to stay by himself. He's my friend."

"Oh, so you're friends now?"

Barbara nods, even though daddy probably can’t see it. “Yes, I like him. He was sad but he was nice and he told me about the elephants at the circus.” 

Daddy mutters something about _damn elephants_ like he doesn’t think Barbara can hear him, and now he owes a quarter to the swear jar they got for Uncle Harv. She doesn't say much during the ride home, but she can’t stop thinking about Dick and how sad he looked when she left, and worries she may not get to see him again. Daddy promises he and the rest of his men are going to do everything they can to help him.  


Daddy makes spaghetti for dinner and lets her help cook, which usually means he doesn't want to talk about something anymore or for her to push it. Barbara only does a little.

Over the next few months daddy makes good on his promise, and Bruce Wayne gives Dick a place to stay while Tony Zucco sits in a jail cell. Batman sightings grow more and more popular as does her increasing fascination with him, which daddy actively tries to discourage. 

She's waiting for him one night, hanging around the station because he got called in and couldn't find a sitter in time despite her insistence she didn't need one, though that argument was always going to be fighting a losing battle on her end.

He's been gone for a little while, so she ducks out of his office in search of him. She spends fifteen minutes making her rounds through the other offices and the bullpen before making for the stairwell and the roof like she's definitely not supposed to. Barbara's giddy with a dangerous sense of excitement, mostly because there's a small chance she might get to see Batman in person, and a bigger one that she's about to get in trouble. 

The door to the roof makes more noise than she wishes it did, and she know she's busted before they even spot her. Barbara flushes both in embarrassment and at the sudden chill in the air, which serves as a start contrast to the heat inside the station. Daddy grimaces at her and she freezes because not only is Batman there, tall, dark, and intimidating, but he's also come with his companion, who Barbara has only seen in the newspaper clippings her dad keeps, and on spots on the news. 

Batman doesn’t say anything before he leaves, but daddy doesn’t seem too surprised. It's Robin who seems to throw him off though, and he has his hand on Barbara's shoulder as he herds her back to the stairwell. 

She looks in time to see Robin offer a little wave she starts to return, and daddy grumbles: "not on your life, Boy Wonder."


	2. touch.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a rare lazy morning; they might as well enjoy it.
>
>> day 2: touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm very content with this one, lol. thank you guys so much for reading!

The water in the shower is running by the time she awakes, the rest of world coming into view, blurred as it is. She stretches and finds the blankets still disheveled on his side from where he'd tossed them haphazardly after sliding out of bed. 

From her current vantage point she can't tell if Dick's humming, if he's muttering to himself, or if he got shampoo in his eye, and there's a pretty good chance it's all three. She rolls, gathering the blankets back around her chin, eyes closed in the guise of going back to sleep even though she knows she won't, and tries not to think too hard on what they have to say to one another.

They're a couple, but they're not a couple, and while she's prided herself on control and definitions, giving one to this is … easier said than done. They've gone back and forth on this a few times already, and she's loathe to tarnish what they have.

Barbara's sitting propped up against the headboard, hair pulled back out of her face and glasses perched on her nose as she scrolls through her tablet when he comes back into the room. He towels his hair as he pads across the smooth hardwood, and she barely casts him a glance as he leaves it on the floor, and then as the mattress dips and he moves to lie on his stomach.

Partway through an article on yet another bid for mayoral campaign, Barbara has to shift as he makes quick work of stretching out along the comforter to rest his head in her lap. A bead of water travels down the nape of his neck, and she watches it sink into the blanket before adjusting her grip on her tablet to free a hand.

"Comfy?" she says, fingers tunneling into still damp locks, and Dick makes a contented sound in the back of his throat as her nails trail along his scalp. "Thought you were getting breakfast."

"I am getting breakfast," he comes back with, winding an arm around the bottom of her thighs. "I'm getting breakfast right now." There's a considering pause as Barbara drags her hand through his hair again and finishes her article. "Though if you keep doing that we're never getting breakfast—but I didn't say stop."

Only half paying attention, she glances at the next tab she's opened, keeping correspondence with the rest of the Birds when he lets out a breath. Dick nudges her once, the only warning she gets before she's sliding down the headboard, propped on her pillow to stare down at him as he opts to rest his head on her stomach instead, hand giving her hip a squeeze.

"Hi," she says, eyebrow raised and watching water spots gather around her ribs.

"Hi."

Her hand leaves his crown to smooth down the plane of his back, and he tilts his head to rest his cheek against the base of her ribcage, looking up at her through his damp fringe. His thumb glides back and forth against the blanket at her waist, a sensation she can’t feel through the cotton, and Barbara strains to set her tablet on the nightstand before it ends up knocked on the floor. Dick's still watching her when she looks back down, pushing her hair out of her face. She gives him another minute before she starts getting self-conscious and has to squash the urge to wriggle beneath him.

"If you're going to tell me I have a bat in the cave I might have to push you off the bed," she says, hand formerly holding her tablet skirting up the length of the forearm he's slung across her waist.

He frowns at her. "What? No, I was just… looking at you? Unless you want me to check. I can do that."

Barbara's brief laugh jostles him, and he wastes no time in scooting a little farther up the bed, digging his elbow into the mattress and dragging himself another few inches so his head rests against her breast now. She just about snorts. Dick closes his eyes. He's a warm, welcome weight against her, like a human blanket she didn't know she needed, even if his hair is still damp from his shower and there's a towel sitting on her hardwood floor. His knee knocks against hers before coming to rest, though in all his squirming he's careful to ensure her fingers never leave his locks, never stop in their occasional drag across his scalp.

Her other hand trails up his shoulder to glide across his back, backs of her nails dragging against the patchwork of scars across his shoulders. Dick shifts against her and leans into her touch.

"You coming onto me?" He cracks an eye open, glancing up at her with a trancelike glaze to his eye, and she drags her nails back across his shoulders, fingers of her other hand continuing their ministrations as they card through his hair.

Barbara raises an eyebrow behind her glasses. "You want me to stop?"

She's met with a scoff in return and the arm around her waist tightens, pulling her closer and further into him, head nearly off her pillow at this point. The blankets bunch up at her armpits, and Dick moves to assist her in better freeing her arms before he's lying beside her, eye level and face hovering a few sparse inches from hers.

"I said that?" he says against her mouth and she shrugs, glancing away just to be coy.

"Well, I figured it was implied." She drags her nails down his scalp to the base of his skull and Dick grumbles something unintelligible before sealing his mouth over hers. The hand not at the nape of his neck comes to rest on his shoulder and she can feel the mattress shift again as he plants his hand against the sheets by her ribs to support his weight.

Barbara kisses him back, holding him to her, though he makes no move to shift away—only closer, if the hand that wiggles its way from his side to cup her cheek is any indication. His nose bumps her glasses when he tilts his head, and the pillows slides out from beneath hers. She's the one to pull away first, sighing softly against his lip as he nudges the end of his nose against hers.

Dick opens his mouth to say something, but she never finds out what it is when a low rumble from his stomach interrupts. The grin he offers is slanted, just this side of bashful, and he pulls away a little in order to allow Barbara to sit up with a brief giggle.

"So about that breakfast, huh?" She says, and Dick sits back on his haunches as she rights herself and adjusts her shirt from where it's ridden up from lying down for so long. He watches her hold a hair tie between her teeth as she pulls her hair back, and shrugs.

"Me? How do we know that wasn’t you?" 

Barbara gives him a look. He doesn’t budge.

She rolls her eyes and he clambers off the bed, snagging his towel off the floor as she reaches for her chair and maneuvers into it. The towel sails toward the hamper in a haphazard arc, and she offers a brief golf clap while he turns and bows.

"It’s about time you picked that up," she says, and Dick waits until she’s close enough to him that he can lift his foot and nudge her shin with his toe.

"I was otherwise preoccupied, Babs,” he returns before he bends back down, hands on either arm of her chair in order to kiss her again. "Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining."

She taps her finger against his chin. "Only 'cause I do that mentally."

"Wow," he scoffs, standing back up. He's still smirking though, and Barbara watches him raise his arms above his head and stretch, back arching until something cracks and he pauses. "Damn, I'm just full of noises this morning."

Barbara hums and he steps aside to allow her to pass him through the threshold into the hallway. She can hear Dick trail along behind her, bare feet against the smooth hardwood, and she can imagine him musing his hair back into place after all her tousling. She makes no move to hide her smirk, even if he can’t see it.

"So about that breakfast…" he starts, and then fall into tandem in the kitchen: he hands her a mug with coffee just the way she likes it, and she passes him the strawberries he always slices up for his French toast. Tonight, later, they’ll be Nightwing and Oracle, and she'll steel herself for whatever condition he returns in. For now, though, they're Dick and Barbara, and he hums along to the radio while she whisks eggs.

After, once he's finished getting dressed, she pulls him back down and he tastes like syrup and promises she intends to keep.


	3. scars.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they always knew this life wasn't going to be easy.
>
>> day 3: scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are a number of things i want to expand on with this one, but those are to be saved for another fic, lmao

Normally she doesn’t hole up in the Batcave; it's too cold for a welcoming sense of familiarity, and it isn't the base of operations she's established for herself.

Alfred stands at the ready, stalwart, as always, and she looks away from the monitor that's been holding her attention for the last few hours in time to see the Batmobile roar into the Cave. It brakes harder than usual, which either means the driver's injury is worse than he'd let on when she addressed it earlier, or he and his passenger are arguing. It's likely both.

Tim extracts himself first, looking anywhere but at the two of them on the platform above, and then Dick clambers out of the driver's seat, lacking his usual finesse and grace.

She and Alfred exchange a look; Tim tromps up the stairs, gait off only so, enough they can tell he's trying to hide it, and peels his mask off by the time he reaches them.

"Hey," he says by way of greeting, and puts up little fuss as Alfred makes quick work in assisting him in removing a few outer layers to access the extent of his injuries. Barbara goes back to watching Dick, who lumbers more than she's ever seen him, the weight of Batman physically and metaphorically never having sat right on his shoulders. His mouth is drawn into a line, and it's a look that doesn’t fit on him, too akin to a man he doesn't want to be.

Neither she nor Alfred are strangers to the way Dick feels about being Batman, be it the cape or weight it carries; Nightwing was always more about agility and the fluidity of movement, inlaid armor plates thinner though no less effective.

He doesn't say anything to Barbara when he passes her by, yanking the cowl off over his eyes with more ferocity than  he typically does. She says nothing to him either, and instead maneuvers her chair to wheel herself back into the Cave, toward a better vantage point of the flurry of activity that is Tim depositing bits of suit all across the floor, much to Alfred's chagrin.  


"That fall could have put you out of commission for a while there, Robin," Barbara says, looking at him over the edge over her glasses. From where he sits she can see a mark running the length of his bicep she knows is going to leave a nasty bruise.

"That's okay, Batman's big head broke it," he says, hissing at Alfred's prodding and soft admonishing. She smiles just so.

Dick frowns and she waits for him to pitch the cowl clear across the room.

Tim averts his gaze and instead opts to chat amicably with Alfred with all the gusto a sixteen year-old can, regaling him with the insider scoop on their latest run-in with Croc. From the way he's leaning, she can tell the impact from landing on Dick's body armor full-force jostled him more than he let on. Speaking of which, she looks up at Dick, who by this point has managed to strip to the waist, though he's left the remnants of his suit in a much neater pile than Tim had, albeit still on the floor.

“Where's Damian?” he asks, still not looking at her, and she isn't afraid to admit she bristles at the otherwise cold shoulder he's given her thus far. She opts to gloss over that, for now, rather than point out he's truly given new meaning to unfriendly exes.

"In his room," she says, but what she doesn't is that he stayed up for as long as he could manage (despite her and Alfred's insistence he go to bed) before he couldn't hold his head up any longer.

Dick grunts and eyes Tim from where he sits across the room, alternating between grinning up at Alfred and trying to shy away when he gets too close to a bruise. He adjusts the undershirt from where it's stuck to his skin, and she turns away to afford him some privacy as he ducks away to strip the rest of the suit. In the time he's gone Alfred's deemed Tim's condition satisfactory, for the time being, and instructs him to shower and get to bed, paying no mind to the fact it's going on four in the morning now. Dick returns, decked out in a clean shirt and faded pair of sweatpants, hair matted to his forehead from a cursory shower that was more of a rinse than anything, and Barbara folds her arms over her stomach as he comes to stand beside her.

"I think Tim's done with Robin," he says, and out of view Barbara's eyes roll skyward with a quick prayer to whatever god has the misfortune of dealing with them. She could, of course, skirt the subject and deflect, tell him to never mind that now, let's see the damage Croc throwing him into a brick wall did, but Barbara's never been one to bite her tongue.

"Right, you plan on taking Robin away because the kid didn't listen to you to a T tonight? I didn't realize the requirements were so high." There's a bite to her tone, and while she doesn't quite glare at him, the thought doesn't sit well.

Dick rolls his shoulder, but still doesn't look at her, and he's either too zoned out to notice or just doing it to get a rise out of her.

"It’s not like I plan on firing him, Barbara," he says. "I don't think he needs Robin anymore."

Barbara raises her eyebrows and makes no secret of her judgement. "And who do you plan on being Robin instead? The kid I sent to his room earlier because I thought he was going to stab me?" She raises her arm and gestures. "You take a look at that kid right there and tell me how taking this is going to do him any good, tell him how it felt when you found someone _else_ carried the name."

"No one's Robin forever; he's about to grow out of it and needs something else, something better."

"And do you plan on telling _him_ that before you take it away?" Dick doesn't say anything, and she could bite her tongue so hard it bleeds because _you’re acting just like him_. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, voice softening. "Tim’s dealing with enough now, Dick. He's already lost Bruce and his father—don't take this from him, too."

The comment sits between them for a moment, long enough for him to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes and curse under his breath. Barbara gives him another two seconds before she swallows back every other admonishment she has and instead herds him into the elevator, Alfred offering a curt nod as he goes about collecting kevlar and spandex.

Dick maintains his silence the entire ride up and then into the kitchen, and Barbara entertains herself by giving him a once-over, taking in the way his stance sags and she can just about imagine a knot in every single muscle he has. It isn't a good look on Dick, but an exceedingly unfamiliar one, a look he's adopted more and more as of late, ever since the Dark Knight took hold.

"C'mon," she says, hand at his elbow and just about shepherding him toward the small table by the window, the one that's hardly ever used aside from collecting jackets or groceries as they're being put away. He slumps into his seat, and she makes for the fridge and the leftovers from the dinner Alfred prepared five of them but only three ate. "Fettuccine Alfredo or Frosted Flakes?"

"Flakes,” he says, for which she finds herself grateful because she's in little mood to go about the multi-step process of reheating pasta, and while it's not his usual it's nice, quick, and easy. Dick watches as she fetches a bowl and a box that's going to be bordering on crumbs soon, and she tries not to think about how it's the first time he's looked at her all night.

It's all muscle memory as she prepares a quick bowl of cereal, setting it before him with a _bon appétit_ , to which he at least has the decency to nod and say _thank you_.

Barbara could leave him now, she thinks, and almost does before she catches the look in his eye, the unfocused glaze of it.  


She watches him like she's observing a specimen back in school, the way the scars dotting his shoulders and arms are highlighted in the dim glow of the kitchen, the way there are more than she wishes there were. They run deeper than the ones crisscrossing his skin, a morbid game of connect the dots. She, of all people, knows the wounds words can inflict, the way they sit and stick along the inside of the ribcage, making themselves known again on a particularly painful exhale. 

She knows, too, that not all scars draw blood. Dick never speaks of Catalina if he can help it, and on the occasion she brings her up the conversation swiftly changes gears.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and she looks away from the marred line on his shoulder to find him looking back at her. His gaze is too open, too raw, and it takes everything in her power not to look away. Just his luck, isn't it; Dick had never wanted to be Batman, never wanted to become him, moved away to California, to Blüdhaven, to escape the shadow of Gotham, and instead it had sunk in its claws and dragged him right back. He isn't Bruce, isn't Batman, he's Nightwing, the universal constant of the BPD, the Teen Titans, of the JLA, of every organization that exists and even those who don't. "I don't know what to do." 

"You know the world will be okay without Batman, right?" she says after a moment, spoon clinking against the ceramic and he twirls it absently. "It won't stop spinning just because Batman doesn't appear on patrol one night, one weekend."

_But that's all it takes_ , she can hear him say, even though he doesn't. And to admit the world doesn't need Batman right now, to cease all appearances of him in Gotham, is to admit that Bruce is gone. Tim's emotional stance, including Damian's, is worrisome enough, and she mourns as well, but it's Dick's emotional volatility that worries her.

"Huntress and Batgirl can keep watch for a while, and so can Catwoman. I'm sure Red Hood's maintained his grip on the east side, at the moment." Selina had been a bit of a wild card for a minute when she found it was Dick, not Bruce under the cowl, but Barbara's not about to put all of her eggs in one basket.

He looks up from his dinner turned breakfast. "You trust Red Hood?"

"I said he could probably be useful, not that I trust him," she returns. He almost grins.

"I'll be sure to tell him you said that."

Barbara hums softly and after a moment's hesitation reaches over to lay her hand on his wrist. Dick's hand twitches, almost turns like it's about to take hers, but then doesn't. He looks down at their hands and she watches his face, the ghosts flickering across his features and the scar at his temple dipping into his hairline, and hates the way she, too, has inflicted pain upon him. He wore his heart on his sleeve around her and she squeezed it in an iron grip before giving it back to him and telling him maybe next time. He's never been the one to break up with her, after all.

Barbara pulls her hand back; Dick turns his palm up, an open invitation she can't bring herself to take. _  
_

"You should go get some rest while it's still dark out," she says, gathering up the bowl and remnants of soggy flakes left at the bottom. Dick moves to stand before her in his undershirt and faded sweatpants, a sight that's all too familiar, and it makes something in her ache.

"You aren’t coming?" he asks as the corners of his mouth dip into a frown, and that only serves to worsen the feeling.

Barbara hesitates, but only for a split second, long enough to give him the impression that he's thrown her, not that she isn't fully opposed to the idea, that a part of her does want to, though that's hardly where they stand now. She isn't sure if he's with someone or not, or if she has any right to be the one to toe the line, the same she put between them. Before he can backtrack she shakes her head.

"Nah, there's some reading I want to do, and I don't think I would be getting much sleep anyhow." What she doesn't say is how when he sleeps he's like a space heater, and a cuddler at that. As much as she may miss it, it also isn't conducive to him getting much rest and paying heed to his latest injuries. A ghost of a smile traces along his lips.

"What are you reading?"

Her brow furrows, and his gaze trails away after a moment.

She smiles a little, one she can't help, and leaves the cereal bowl in the sink. Dick shifts his weight, and she tries to goad him into looking at her again with: "Do you want me to read to you?"

"Well, when you put it like that," he mumbles, to which Barbara has to laugh, now. Dick, albeit battered, stands a little straighter, head a little higher, and perhaps it's just a trick of the light but she'd argue some color has returned to his cheeks. With the sweep of his arm he allows her to lead them both from the kitchen, and the silence, now, is more companionable.

Later, they'll have to touch on his comments about Robin and Tim passing on the mantle, their argument the week prior about Stephanie as Batgirl, the divide between Dick and Batman and all he encompasses. For now, however, he'll fall asleep with his head in her lap while she re-reads her book, texts Dinah to postpone their breakfast date and thinks, _maybe_.


	4. please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes it's soft reassurances
>
>> day 4: please
>>
>>> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> and to think, i almost postponed these LMAO  
> this isn't one of my favorites, but i suppose it will have to do

"Have you seen this?"

Dick turns in time for the morning paper to glance his temple, flinching and grabbing at it with a half-awake scowl. Barbara meets it with one that's a little more fully formed, and he flips the paper, scanning various headlines before glancing at her again. "If I say yes will you stop throwing things at me at—" he squints at the clock above the stove. "—seven-oh-four a.m.? This about the Knights game? I missed it on patrol last night."

"No, it isn’t," she comes back with around a huff. "Keep reading; and put on a shirt and grab some breakfast, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, tossing the paper on the kitchen table and pawing at the arm of the couch for the threadbare BPD sweatshirt they share custody of to pull over his head. He adjusts the hood with a yawn, tugging it over his chest and catching her eyeing him. "Am I distracting you or somethin'?"

"You’re always distracting me," she comes back with little pause. Dick grins into the collar of the sweatshirt, one she can see without having to look at him.

“Thanks, I try.” She's rolling her eyes by the time he glances back at her, though that doesn't come as a surprise.

Barbara gestures to the paper, the same one he hasn't so much as glanced at since she almost hit him in the face with it. Dick scoffs once, half-heartedly, and plops himself down at the dining chair opposite her, the one he's taken as his, assigned sitting for dinner, despite how unspoken it's gone. He has a toothbrush by her bathroom sink and a section set aside in her closet, something that offers a little more permanence than last time. Now, he isn’t so much living out of a suitcase as he is keeping one in the hall closet.

"Nah, I didn't plan on reading. Figured I'd hold it up to my head and glean all the necessary information through osmosis."

"They're saying I'm in it for your money."

"Well this is awkward," he says after a pause. He lies the paper on the table, running the pads of his fingers along the creases to smooth them out. "I was only in this for yours."

Barbara's still grimacing, though not at him, and Dick allows her a few minutes of contemplative silence, munching on an apple slice from her plate all the while. She's always done her utmost not to allow headlines to get to her, grown a thick skin over the years ever since she first donned the mantle, started leaving anonymous tips with B and overheard comments about how goons thought Batgirl was really filling out, and what they'd like to do to her. Thicker skin, still, once Joker told her what he thought of her and as the doctors reconstructed her spine.

Dick regards her carefully, and her gaze wanders back to him as he makes his way through his second slice. She hasn't smacked his hand away yet, which means she's let her guard down too much, and she sits back in her chair with a sigh and tries to keep her expression from being too pinched.

He skims the bulk of the article, sans the bit that tells him to turn to page six for more, and then shifts his attention back to her.

"This isn't really bugging you, is it?" he asks, voice hinting toward amusement, though the quirk to his brow doesn’t match his eyes. His jaw is too clenched for that.

Barbara shakes her head and grumbles a little because no, it isn’t, of course not, but also it is, just a little bit. She's dealt with more than her fair share of rumor milling, grew up in the spotlight as the daughter of the police commissioner in one of the most corrupt cities in the states, and alongside one of the richest families on the eastern seaboard. She's had her name in the paper a good number of times, though she's loathe to see it. It's more a frustration than anything, names she knows but people she doesn't doing their utmost to define her, to tell utter strangers who she is, to drag Dick's name along with it because he was always one of the favorite topics. Young, attractive, a tragic tale in Gotham raised by Gotham's most tragic tale.

Barbara Gordon's a charity case, and woe be it to Richard Grayson, Crown Prince of Gotham, to be saddled with her. It's all a bunch of bullshit, but it fails to help matters any when her software’s picking up on buzzwords and throwing these articles at her, or that they’re the first thing she sees in the morning when she’s attempting to catch up on local news. There are times she's felt like a rendition of _where are they now,_ for others to _ohh_ and _ahh_ over because they haven't forgotten about her, and they all remember what happened to her.

She sets her glasses on the table, next to the plate minus the three apple slices Dick has snagged from her, and then drags her hands through her hair, gathering it all at her crown. When she opens her eyes Dick has come to crouch before her, nudging his chair away with his knee and eye level with her.

His head tilts and he leans into her space, not enough to encroach, but enough to remind her he's there. He's learned the hard way, having been pushed away so many times. A jolt of guilt rattles up into her ribcage.

"Babs," he says, and she doesn't say anything back to him for a moment, all of perhaps two seconds from telling him to knock it off, leave it alone; she'll work through it and get over it in her own right. She doesn't need this belittlement, even though that's not what it is.

"Dick," she returns, face too impassive for him to read. He braces himself on the balls of his feet, and then reaches for her hands where they've fallen in her lap, the one she lets him take, for the time being. He maintains eye contact with her, and it takes everything in her power not to look away, not to snatch her hand back.

He rests his cheek against her palm, holding it there until it curls against it, strands of hair ghosting against her fingertips. He says nothing, only looks at her, right into her eyes, all the minuscule cracks in the walls she's so painstakingly constructed and holes she's sealed a dozen times over. They all look the same, the ones she's allowed him to bleed through and take root. Her other hand comes to rest against the other side of his face, and his fingers encircle her wrist.

"You've never cared what they had to say about us before, so why does it matter now?" he asks, voice too raw, carrying too much weight she can't begin to deal with. Their rekindled relationship is still too new for others to start needling their way into it.

"It doesn’t matter," she says. "Or it does, I don't know." She buries her face in her hands for a moment, anything for a distraction though it's short-lived. Barbara has always prided herself on not putting her value in how others see her, and she has never planned to now; in all her years she's had little interest in defining her worth by how somehow else has viewed her, but on occasion there have been times… words are sharp and sting, and she has used them herself. She knows their bite.

Although it is sometimes difficult, given her ties. She's Barbara Gordon, with ties to Commissioner Gordon, to Bruce Wayne, to Dinah Lance, to Dick Grayson; Oracle's linked back to the JLA, JSA, and every other mildly heroic acronym out there. Sometimes she wants to just… be. Other times, she prides herself on those connections. She's exhausted. She doesn't need people looking at her and her boyfriend and asking _you say you love him, but do you really?_

But Dick looks up at her, eyes too wide, too honest, too open. Her chest aches.

"Please…" she murmurs, and then Dick leans closer. "I just need..." Time, answers, she doesn't know what.

She holds his face in her hands and tries not to think on how he has, in essence, allowed her every part of him.

"Then why are you with me? Why are we together, Babs?" he asks, and it's so much, all at once, even two simple sentences. _Because I love you, because you are too important for me to lose, because I'm most content when I'm with you; because I feel safe. You mean too much,_ she wants to say but doesn't.

In their relationships he has always given more than she could, and she marvels at how she has always been the one to call them off.

"It’s okay," he says, turning his head enough so he can press a quick kiss to the palm of the hand he holds, though his eyes remain on her. "I know, you don't have to say it."

But no, no she should, she thinks. It isn't fair she's hardly put what they are into words, that she hasn't fully delved into every one of her feelings, raw and painful and brutal and honest as they can be; unfair that Dick's so openly emotional and that she hesitates so much.

Dick's heart is on his sleeve and he wears it proudly, and she wonders at it and he turns back to her and says _it's yours_.   


"So fuck them," he says, and she breathes out a laugh.

She closes her eyes and can feel his still on her. He gives her her moment, lets her breath, lets her filter out everything she's thought of but hasn't wanted to, every moment that should never have been given merit, sorting until she centers herself, brings herself right back to her (their?) kitchen table at seven twenty-two a.m. on a mildly sunny Gotham morning. She opens her eyes.

"I love you," she says.

He smiles, one that is real and reflects in his eyes, less slants and a hint of teeth, and that, she believes, is perhaps answer enough.

"I'd hope so, otherwise this is really awkward," he returns, and her eyebrow's begun to raise and she has half a remark prepared about how _that's a really romantic comeback, Hunk Wonder_ before she loops her fingers in the ties of his hoodie and pulls him forward. Her other hand trails through his hair, and he’s still smiling with a _love you too_ mumbled against her lips as she kisses him.

The angle is too awkward and after a minute puts strains on his neck and calves, and she loosens her hold just enough for him to pull away.

Barbara lets him stand, leaning back into her chair and apple slices forgotten.

"I’m hitting the shower," he says after he rights himself, and something passes through his expression as he watches her gaze flicker.

Her tongue presses against the back of her teeth. "Be there in a minute."

"Oh yeah?" His smile turns wolfish and she can’t help but mirror it with her own, behind a tangle of hair from where it's come and spilled over her shoulders.

"Hmm, maybe not _just_ for the money," she says, and she's laughing as she allows him to hook an arm under her knees, his other around her back, her head falling back over her shoulders as she laughs and he kisses the side of her neck. It’s safe, comfortable, familiar, and theirs for as long as they will allow it, others be damned, and Dick makes damn sure she knows it as his fingers skim her sides and her laugh trails off into a sigh.


	5. promise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> relationships don't mean being there only when convenient
>
>> day 5: promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new thing i love about this site: you can choose how the publication date appears so no one has to know you were actually half an hour late. 
> 
> also i know these are all babs-centric and her pov but that's how we're rollin', kids
> 
> this whole fic makes more sense if you don't look at my tags

Barbara rolls over, not for the first time that night, and tries so desperately hard not to _think_.

She could get up and get some work done, track progress from where Tim's been gathering intel on Dent, but it's a slow night and she decided she was, for once, going to get at least three hours of uninterrupted sleep. Thus far, she's managed to doze for maybe five minutes, and that was around midnight. It's two now. 

It's two and she's grown unused to lying alone, or at least tucking in without the promise of there being someone beside her at some point, and she groans before swapping Dick's pillow for hers because it's softer and cooler.

She watches her clock and knows she should sleep, enjoy it while she can, but the two glares back at her ominously in the dark of her bedroom and she stares back. Her father's words roll around in her mind, echoing in her ears, and she feels some pang of guilt at the way he'd stumbled back over them. He's always meant well, always had her best interests at heart, but sometimes Barbara wishes her father had a better sense of his words around her, because while she knows he may not mean them the way they come across, they still sting. Jim's fairly well adjusted to his daughter being in a wheelchair, as he very well should be, having had nearly a decade to do so.

But she's no fool, not blind to way he looks at her sometimes, on those rarer occasions, especially on the anniversaries (when she was admitted and released from the hospital) and knows he will always harbor a deep-seated guilt that he couldn't stop the Joker.

It didn’t help matters any when he looked up at her from across the table and mentioned a controversial surgery in South Africa, mentioned spinal implants and stem cells, and she stared right back at him. Isn't that a wonder, Barbara? That you might have this option?

He'd quickly tried to backtrack, but the mood had already soured and she'd called it a night soon after.

That was six hours ago.

Barbara rolls over and her head sinks into Dick's pillow, her phone already in her hand without the thought to pick it up registering.

He's maybe an hour and fifteen minutes away, thirty minutes at most, and something roils in her gut because her bed feels too empty and she doesn't have his body heat curled over her back, slung around her hips, close enough she could ask if he plans on getting any sleep. She hesitates, just for a moment, and then she's listening to the first ring, then the second, and then he picks halfway between the third and fourth.

"Mmhm?" she hears through the phone, and then he clears his throat and tries again: "Babs?"

She can hear him moving around, clearing the sleep from his voice, and the guilt that contends with waking him on a rare night he actually gets to sleep is overruled by the relief that trails behind it.

“Everything okay? What’s happening?” There’s a sense of urgency to his voice and she knows he’s perhaps three seconds from pulling his suit on, if not just a pair of pants, and cutting that hour and a half distance in half.

“Nothing, everything’s fine,” she tells him, before Oracle shifts back into Barbara. Dick makes a noise like he doesn’t totally believe her, but then she can’t blame him given that she called him after two in the morning, and no calls after dinner are usually good ones, especially in their line a work. She drags a hand over her face and then buries it in her hair, already regretting the call she shouldn’t be making in the first place. But Dick’s never going to let it go now, and he knows her too well for her to pass it off as she just missed him, or maybe this is a booty call, what is he wearing? She takes a breath. “My dad—”

“What happened?” he cuts in, voice with an edge to it.

She closes her eyes and tries to keep her jaw from tightening too much. “Dick.”

“Sorry, continue.”

She doesn’t know how to, just for a split second, because to say it is suddenly going to make it very, very real.

“I spent some time with my dad today, having dinner at his place,” she starts, and they’d found that had worked to their advantage because Dick had needed to work a shift in Blüdhaven and she hadn’t seen her father in a while. She just hadn’t expected her father to surprise her with the prospect of surgery and potentially having use of her legs again. It’s an odd thought to consider. “We were having coffee and he brought up this surgery he’d apparently heard of, somewhere in South Africa, and the idea… it’s a spinal implant, it sounds like. Something with stem cells and it could… could potentially get me out of this chair.”

Dick’s quiet for a moment, considering, and she worries her lip between her teeth until it stings. She’s already flipping through every contingency plan she has, weighing outcomes, the yes, no, maybe so, and the hurt at the thought this is something she needs, like it’s something they’ve been waiting for, like she can finally be fixed after so long. Like she needs to be.

“Is it something you’re considering?” he asks, finally, and she can hear the rustle of fabric and the groan of a spring as he sits up.

Barbara pushes her hair away from her forehead. “Maybe if someone had approached me about this before, right after, but now… I don’t think it’s something I need.”

“Then I think that’s your answer right there,” Dick says and she frowns.

“I don’t think it’s really that simple.”

“No? Because it sounds to me like you made up your mind long before you called me, and long before your dad said anything. If you want to use me as a soundboard for all of your thoughts right now, go for it, but if you ask me, this is something that’s up to you. You’ve never let the chair define you before, and no experimental procedure can, either.” She smiles, just a little, despite all the emotional and mental turmoil. When she doesn’t respond right away, Dick continues: “And you know no one can guilt you for going for it if you want, right? It isn’t someone else’s choice to make for you.”

Barbara rolls again, phone cradled to her ear, and reaches down to drag her knees up to her chest and sighs. There’s too much emotionally vulnerability, and she’s hardly even said anything. Dick’s done enough talking for the both of them, as he is wont to do.

“And regardless of what you decide to go for, I’m going to by your side,” he says, as if that’s that. She can just about hear the smile through the phone.

“Oh yeah?” she says, and finds some contentment in that it does, to an extent, alleviate the mental strain she’s found herself in all night. She’s still miffed at the idea she needs to be fixed, still, as if she ever did; while that may not have been how her father meant it, there’s still some part of her that hears that. There is a reason none of her chairs have handles on them, why her apartment has been modified just so, why she has gotten to where she is.

“Yeah, I already tossed the receipt and everything. You’re stuck with me, no returns.” He’s practically grinning and about to start laughing to himself any minute, Barbara can tell. And so she joins him, and lets her mind wander as they do.  


She spent years building herself up, making sure everyone knew she didn’t need the use of her legs to make a difference, to live her life, and perhaps ended up with a better one for it. Of course there are times she misses the little things she took for granted: turning the faucet on in the tub with her toes, early morning jogs around Robinson Park, stretching out her legs without having someone else do it for her. Leaping off rooftops is another story. She’s carved her way as Oracle, done so much more good, felt so much more at peace and welcomed a renewed sense of identity; to go back to capes and cowls is moving in reverse, sliding back down a slope with jagged edges, the very same she forced herself up with bloodied fingertips. 

Batgirl is not who she is, but who she was, a stepping stone in her path to growth, but she can’t pretend she doesn’t miss those days on occasion. But she misses Batgirl in the way one misses a childhood hobby, the joy of freedom and little consideration for the future and the dark it held; like a photo album one flips through with misty-eyed nostalgia, and only relives vicariously through memory and others. Batgirl is her legacy to pass to Steph, to Cass, to Tiffany or Carrie, a name, while beautiful and strong, that no longer fits her.

It’s then, she decides, surgery or no, she can never be Batgirl again; will never be. Oracle is who she is, always was, always meant to be. It’s like asking Dick to return to Robin.

Barbara toys with the corner of the sheet.

“Where are you now?”

“My apartment. Couch,” he says and she can hear him shift again, can imagine the same one she’s made herself at home on, sunk right into the pillows and dozed in contentment while her legs rested in his lap. “Netflix is asking if I’m still watching ... _The Witcher_?”

“You kept watching without me?”

Dick scoffs, as affronted as can be. “What? No. I had to play catch up with the last two episodes—didn’t really watch them, if you recall.”

And she does. They made it maybe fifteen minutes into the second one before she decided she hadn’t seen her boyfriend in a while, hadn’t gotten a chance alone with him, and then he was a mess in her hands. He’d panted against the column of her throat and she’d found a good sense of satisfaction in that, right until he hooked his fingers in the hem of her sleep shorts and went to his knees.

“Ah,” she says, and Dick makes another noncommittal noise back at her.

“Yeah, _ah_.”

Barbara grins, because it’s not exactly like she regrets it. “I suppose we’ll just have to catch up on it soon.”

“Mhm, if you can keep your hands to yourself, that is,” he returns. It’s Barbara’s turn to scoff.

“Speak for yourself.” She winds an arm under his pillow, tucking it closer.

Dick yawns, a little louder than he likely means to, and not for the first time she feels a little bad for keeping him up and waking him in the first place. “I really want to have a solid comeback to that, but I’m going to have to take a raincheck on that while my brainpower boots back up.”

There’s more to say on experimental medical procedures, deeper and more thorough talks than a two a.m. phone call allows for, more thoughts for her to mull over and hash out. It’s something to consider, at the very least, though she’s already certain which way she falls.

“Get some sleep, Hunk Wonder,” she says, and thinks she may text Amy tomorrow for updates. The two have built up a rapport of their own, and it’s nice to have a connection who isn’t on the take or is overly familiar with the behind the scenes world of masks and capes. It’s nice, normal, different.

“Same goes to you, love,” he says, shifting around on the couch again. She wonders if the bed feels too big to him, too, but elects not to say anything. He bids her a good night and tells her, “I’ll be there when you wake up in the morning.”

She smiles, even though he likely won’t be. “Always.”

He isn’t, but he calls her first thing in the morning, says he really wishes he was home (funny, he calls it home and not her place) because he’s in the mood for eggs and all he has in the freezer are some Toaster Strudels. Barbara tells him ah, what a pity, she was in the middle of making scrambled eggs and he calls her a tease.

Dick’s home by evening, though he’ll have to leave first thing in the morning, and she greets him at the door. He takes her to dinner where they bicker over the correct pronunciation of pasta dishes, and they indulge in a bottle of wine rather than a glass, and another when they get home, where he gets handsy on the couch and she has to laugh.

He goes with her to her consultation, listens attentively and interjects with the same questions she has. Later, the paperwork sits folded in the bottom of her bag, untouched for the time being, and as they sit and Dick laughs at something on the TV that really isn't all that funny, she reaches over and takes his hand. He squeezes it, and then they shift until he’s pressed against her side, head resting against her ribcage as she plays with his hair and watches whatever sitcom without paying attention to it. Dick is a rock, remained by her side despite their troubles, their pushing and pulling, and Barbara only hopes she can return the favor, swears she will.


	6. whisper.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're always careful, right up until they're not
>
>> day 6: whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i already said this on tumblr, but while this isn't one of my favorites, i'm glad someone who isn't solely dick or barbara got their moment to feature, lmao

The city's in utter turmoil, caught in a territorial dispute between Black Mask and Penguin, of all people, and the bulk of them are out in full force tonight. She imagines Jason's really only out there somewhere because he's always taken immense pleasure is getting under Sionis' skin, but wonders if perhaps he doesn't harbor some sort of soft spot for his adoptive ilk. (Not that she would ask, or would tell her.) He tends to stick close to Steph or Cass, if he works with them, and even those instances are few and far in-between; Cass has no qualms of reminding him of their no-kill rule, however. Forcefully, if she has to.

The train of thought is quickly derailed by the grunt in her ears, followed but a strained noise that's abruptly choked off, and she allows it a split second before she filters through her options, a proverbial whodunnit.

She watches Damian's marker move, right beside his father's, and Harper darts along the eastern side of the city, followed close behind by Tim. Dick's is the only one remaining in place, and she has an ill-humored urge to tell them all the sound off. At first glance she can’d quite tell if his vitals are off, because their heart rates tend to increase with the physical exertion that comes with scaling building and getting in fistfights.

"Nightwing?" she asks after a moment, one hand flitting through CCTV cameras in his vicinity on one of her many screens while the other hovers before her.

"'M good," he says, too quickly and working too hard to hide a strain. His voice borders on a wheeze.

Her eyes narrow and she scours the various activity feeds she has before her in an attempt to pinpoint his exact location; she cannot find visual footage of him. He hasn't moved, the one marker that remains stagnant while the coordinates of the rest of the family shift with a gentle buzz of activity.

"Nightwing, report," she says with more of an edge to her tone, and that buzz crescendos and Damian is the first to ask, caught between a gripe that keep it together Gordon, he would never say to her face, and Cass is quick to follow him. "Nightwing."

"I, uh," Dick starts, drawing in a breath that sounds too pained for her liking. She still can't get a visual. "I got stabbed?"

The first audible response is Bruce, a barely there exhale she's grown attuned to over the years, kept an ear out for. He's the one farthest from him. She tunes out the rest of the chatter, the bombardment of questions and _is it really that bad?_ and zeroes in on the one voice she hasn't heard much of for the past ten minutes; he's typically talking enough for the lot of them and then some.

"Excuse you?"

"I'm okay," he says, though he sounds anything but.

"Eight minutes out," Batman says over the comms., and she almost wants to gripe that's six minutes two slow; nine if he stops to take a breather, which he won't. The distance on her map doesn't account for how massive the city truly is.

Dick mumbles something they don't catch, or maybe it was more an aside to himself they were supposed to. Worry sets in, angry, jagged little claws sinking in and taking hold as it skitters up her spine, and Barbara steels herself because they've had worse, haven't they? But Dick answering in single syllables and failing to elaborate has never been a good sign.

"C'mon Dick, give me something," she murmurs, awaiting another remark, one that's clearer, for him to move, for him to provide them an actual update they can work with. Is it a flesh wound, one he'll pass off as more an inconvenience than anything; is he bleeding out? The last thing she said to him before he left was that he better hurry back because it's his turn to do the dishes.

"I got him." The voice is gruff, and it's enough to throw Barbara for a moment because it's been a long while since she worked with the likes of Red Hood, since Jason agreed to establish communication with her and kept his distance from the rest of the bat-brigade. As she said, he has his preferences, and only makes his appearances in emergencies.

"Hood?"

Bruce says nothing, though Damian does not sound quite so fond, and Jason quickly tells him to can it, kid. Dick is another story.

"Oh shit, they sent you? I must really be dying," he says, though he still sounds strained. Jason makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Barbara debates a quick hack job into the optical system of his helmet, though she highly doubts he'll appreciate that, and with it find all the more reason not to work with any of them. The trust they have in one another, while there, is still slightly frayed.

"You really live up to your namesake, you know that?" Jason comes back with while Barbara watches his marker converge on Dick's location. Her fingers hover over the keys and she delegates fielding all questions regarding Nightwing's condition to Batman until they have Red Hood's assessment, or going back to corralling the brawl starting on 36th like they should be, unless they want an all-out gang war.

She can hear the crunch of gravel that is Jason planting himself on a rooftop, and the distorted shift of his boots as he moves across it. It's perhaps all of another ten seconds before Dick is hissing and muttering a _fuck you_ and she a _thank God_. It's funny, strange, but at least it means he's cognizant. For all they know he got stabbed and wanted to sit for a minute to access, but of course he isn't going to tell him that, and of course _didn’t want to make you worry_ , and the notion irritates her just so.

"The good news is I don't think they managed to hit anything vital. The bad news is you're still a dumbass," Jason offers helpfully, and Barbara closes her eyes. She can imagine the exact look Dick's giving him right now.

Dick grunts. "Your bedside manner is sorely lacking, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, should I have gotten you a sticker?" Barbara hovers, ready to cut in and tell him to get right to the chase, give her an actual update, tell her the extent of the damage, but she can hear the shift that is likely Jason going in for a closer inspection, and the wheeze that is Dick trying to play it off. 

Dick could shatter his ribcage and play it off like it's a minor inconvenience, it only hurts when he breathes. He gets stabbed, doesn't tell them where he is or what happened, and he's fine. Barbara may just have to make him set up camp on the couch.

"What nice brotherly love," he mutters, and she can picture the grumbling that is him allowing Jason to get a closer look, and that's probably only because he knows they're both on speaker and Barbara's listening. "It's really not as bad as it looks."

There's a pretty good chance that was more for her sake, and perhaps the others, but Jason snorts. "You want me to make it worse?"

"No, your presence is doing that just fine, thanks," Dick hisses and her brow pinches. Nightwing's suit is inlaid with body armor, nothing too heavy or restricting, but to get stabbed meant he allowed someone to get into too close quarters, got him at just the right angle and— "It was just a kid."

It comes out in a murmur, just a whisper, and she can hear Jason's in kind: "Aren't they all?"

Neither one of them has a response for that, and another part of her picks up on an update from Tim that they've apprehended a number of Penguin's goons on the east side, and she can hear the question about Dick, though it goes unvoiced.

"You always let kids stab you, or was this one just special?" Jason says shortly after, and the corner of Barbara's mouth quirks into a grin. The joke isn't even that funny. She watches Batman and Robin move closer, wonder if Jason knows.

"You know what, I changed my mind," Dick says, hissing again even, and she finds herself wondering how much blood he's lost, how bad the wound truly is given neither he nor Jason have truly given her much to work with. A cursory glance that says it looks like nothing vital was punctured doesn't negate the fact that he was still stabbed, that Dick's spent the past little while camped out on a rooftop, opting to sit there rather than ask for assistance, rather than make his way home so she could bandage him up. "I'd rather you leave me and my stab wound alone and let me sit on this roof in peace."

"And is that where you planned on spending the rest of the night?" Barbara asks, mentally cataloguing the array of medical supplies she has and whether she'll be able to properly dress the wound or if she'll have to be ready to call either Leslie or Alfred in.

"Oh, Barbara, hey," he says, as if he'd forgotten she was there and listening in the whole time (remarkably quiet, even by her standards). One of them grunts something about _no names_ and Dick huffs. Jason grumbles.

"Oh, yeah, hi," she says. "So you were stabbed?"

"I was,” he supplies, as if those two simple words answer all of her questions. "Wouldn't really recommend it."

He grunts, but that's probably because Jason's prodding him again. She can't say for certain how he's doing, because Dick can go either way with his injuries, but finds some solace in Jason being there, at least, because he has no qualms on calling any one of them on their b.s. It's one of the qualities she admires.

"Sorry about the condition of your boyfriend but, like I said, bad news is he's still a dumbass," Jason says, and she watches Batman and Robin appear not quite a block away. Jason must notice them, too, because then he tells her: "Looks like the cavalry's arrived. Keep an eye on that and try not to let it get infected, dick."

Dick exhales, though it sounds less like a wheeze and more an exhausted older brother. "What would I ever do without you."

A beat, and suddenly Bruce is gathered around him, Red Hood's marker steadily making its way south, a blip on the map that came and went, like he wasn't even there at all. The updates Bruce relays are blunt and succinct, the bulk of to which Dick mutters _I could have told you that._

_But you didn't_ , Barbara wants to say, and manages to fold her arms for a brief second because she has to reach up to tuck hair back behind her ear because it's obstructing her view of the screen, as little of them as she can see. In the corner she can spot Red Hood reaching out to her, on the line only the two of them share, and she allows for another few seconds of Bruce and Dick going back and forth before the latter relents, wheezing and grunting and groaning as he rights himself because he wasn't supposed to move that way, or hey, careful, the hole in his side kind of hurts.

"He's going to be fine, O," Jason says, and she nods even though he can't see it.

"Thank you," she whispers, one that carries only far enough to reach him.

That is the extent of their conversation, and Barbara swiftly changes channels in time to hear Batman tell her they're headed her way because Dick said he wanted to go home, and there's a small thrill to that notion even as she sighs and goes to root around for her medical supplies. She's ready for them by the time they make it to her, and Dick at least looks sheepish, if not still a little pained and otherwise trying to shrug off Bruce's arm. Damian is a little harder to detach.

By the time she has him striped and begun cleaning him up, Barbara thinks, really, that she could punch him. Maybe not right now, maybe not until after his stitches are healed up, but after, for being a bleeding heart and for making them all worry because he couldn't grace them with an answer and tried to leave it as _I got stabbed_.

But then, after she's helped him clean up and dressed the wound, he leans forward, as much as he can given his current condition, rests his forehead against hers, and whispers _hey_ , and she thinks oh, you stupid, beautiful, fool of a man. And she whispers, _I know._


	7. goodnight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes a quiet night in doesn't always go as planned.
>
>> day 7: goodnight.

Dick's been antsy all night, which isn't unusual for him, given he's always been on the move in some way, shape, or form. But tonight is different, because he'd practically begged Steph to cover for him, and since he was still recovering from a stab wound from a few weeks back they'd relented without much fuss. He hardly ever skips out on a night if he can help it, and Barbara tries not to frown at him too much from across the room.

Just because Nightwing isn't making an appearance doesn’t mean Oracle has the night off too, however, and he made his displeasure with this knowledge no secret.

They were originally supposed to go to dinner if they could, apparently, an early jaunt out to the Italian place they frequent just about every time he's in town, because he could live off Da Nico's meatballs and she'd told him once she would leave him for the lobster fra diavolo.

Tonight their dinner was some leftover chicken and rice, and the only plus there had been Alfred had made it.

They'd hit a couple decent notes on their night in, however; they'd played catch-up over dinner and Dick managed to coerce her into a glass of white wine that was just a touch too dry, just the way she liked it, and he'd taken their plates away to clean up. She hadn't pressed it, because then they'd made out on the couch for a while, and he made it all the way to second base before her system chimed.

Dick groans once, loudly, head lolling back onto the back of the couch and leaving the column of his throat exposed. The lizard brain in Barbara tells her to duck her head into it, but Oracle rears back and takes over.

"One second," she says, even though it will be more than that. Dick acquiesces and relinquishes his hold, letting her slip back into the chair he'd nearly forgotten to drag over while he'd had his fingers tangled in her hair.

Barbara smooths her locks back out, and chances a glance back to find Dick disheveled, hair a mess and a flush to his neck and top of his chest before he moves and the collar of his shirt slips back into place. There's a certain look in his eye she can't quite place, and doesn’t get much of a chance to before the system chimes again and she's reaching for her comm.

"Oracle," she says, only to be greeted by Bruce's gruff voice before she's working to relay intel on Great White. He hasn't been much of an active player as of late, and her brow furrows. Dick comes to stand behind her, his hands curling over her shoulders while she works. "He's been quiet; last sighting was around the shipping district six hours ago. Sending Batgirl in to take a better look for recon."

She switches channels. "Robin, how's that mugging you apprehended on Broad Street?"

"Well, I didn't manage to get myself stabbed," Damian comes back with and Dick gives her shoulders a squeeze.

"Good, let's try to keep it that way."

It's another ten minutes of hopping through channels, gathering intel and dispersing it, and Dick stands behind her all the while, thumbs smoothing over the dip from her shoulders to her collarbone in little circles without saying anything. She can practically hear him buzzing with thoughts unspoken, however, and she gives a quick peek back at him, right before Dinah replies to her with an update from where she's been trailing along behind Helena in Chicago.

"Barbara," Dick starts after a few minutes of quiet, during a lull in activity, curling a loose lock around his finger. "Come with me for a second."

She makes to turn to him, ask if something's the matter because he's been off for the past two hours, and then Bruce cuts in again. Dick's expression sours, just for a split second, but long enough for her to see it.

She reaches up a hand for him, interlacing their fingers for a moment. "Why don't you get comfy on the couch; I'll join you again in just a minute."

Dick doesn't reply immediately, expression unreadable with her back turned to him, and his fingers slowly trail off her shoulders, down toward her biceps in a manner that nearly has her shivering, and relents.

When she turns back, adjusting her glasses, she watches him plop down on the couch, more or less pouting, for lack of better term. There's a restless to him, and Dick's always been brimming with activity since she's known him, especially on nights he'd been benched, be it from illness or injury. There are few rare moments where Dick's sedentary, rarer still when he's happy about it. 

They probably could have gone out this evening, in all actuality, had he given her some forewarning instead of showing up at her door because hey, surprise, he has the night off. Barbara, unsurprisingly, had answered the door in her pajamas and declared herself not fit for public consumption; or rather the public wasn't ready to be wowed by her, he'd said. She'd let him in anyway.

Dick's gaze is hard, focused on a spot in the corner of the room, mouth twisting into a grimace because he thinks she isn't looking at him. Her keystrokes falter for a second, because while the night's busy it pales in comparison to most, and the others will be fine for a few minutes of radio silence from Oracle, won't they?

She still hasn't forgotten nor forgiven the time Bruce deemed it necessary to ping her multiple times, right up until the point Dick quit trying to tug off her shirt and answered for her.

"I'll keep you posted in case I come across something," she says, to which to Bruce says nothing, of course, and sets her headset aside for a moment — the longest respite she may get, knowing their luck. Dick rolls his head along the back of the couch as she approaches, face softening though he looks drawn, exhausted, and she has half a mind to ask how that wound is healing up before: "Hey."

"Hey," he says as she leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His fingers toy with the ends of her hair. Okay, maybe she feels a _little_ bad that he took the night off in order to spend time with her, but Oracle’s kind of always busy and doesn't really run on a nine-to-five schedule.

"Sorry we didn't get to go out," she offers. Dick shrugs, still playing with her hair. He's not pouting as much as he was a few minutes, ago, at least, though he still looks a little put out. She watches his throat work, and something flickers through his eyes, gone just as quickly as it appeared and she can't place it.

"'s okay," he says, tilting his head in order to kiss her fully. He nudges her nose with his as he pulls away and she smiles. Hanging out on the couch with him instead sounds like a wonderful idea right now, though really she shouldn’t nor can she. Barbara trails her fingers along the edge of his jaw. "I love you."

"Good to know," she says, and he lets out a breath, mouth quirking at the response, the beginnings of a laugh caught in his throat. Barbara nudges his nose back. "Love you too."

Dick pauses, drumming his fingers just above her knee and looks like he's about to say something but doesn't. Barbara raises an eyebrow at him, just enough to be perceptible, but doesn’t get to press the issue when Oracle's suddenly needed again. Dick's grin fades, lips twisting with a hint of annoyance instead and Barbara has a good few questions because he's been acting up all night. 

She almost wants to tell him to get out there if he's looking to burn off some energy, or is just going to sit on the couch and pout if she has to keep working. It's almost endearing, if not questionable.

"Hold that thought," she says, and Dick nods and grumps a little when her back is turned. Steph updates her on happenings in the Fashion District and sets up a get together for Tuesday night, a study session for her upcoming biochem exam. She switches channels and Damian is short of blunt, asks how Nightwing is doing, and informs her he's keeping watch over Grant Park. They aren't the most exciting updates, though she supposes they could be worse. It allows her to focus more so on Dick's odd behavior than had the city been in shambles, at least. 

She gives him a furtive glance and finds him staring at her.

They spend the better part of the next hour like this, Oracle fielding intel and conversations that go mostly one-sided on someone else's end, and Dick alternating between reading the same page of a book for ten minutes and putting on a late-night talkshow, cheek propped against his fist and nearly dozing on the couch. 

They finally climb into bed somewhere around three, and something in Dick's expression is pinched as she eyes him from the bathroom sink, brushing her teeth. He's lying prone, unmoving and staring up at the ceiling as she slides in beside him, setting her glasses on her nightstand beside her tablet and making herself comfortable.

After she hits the lights they lie in silence for a while, the dark creeping in, and Barbara has to physically bite her tongue to keep from asking what's been up with him tonight, because he was antsy when he came to her door, couldn’t sit still all throughout dinner, and even with her eyes closed and body curled into her pillow she can hear the gears in his head whirring. The moment passes; he sighs, and she readies herself for sleep.

She can hear him shuffling around now, too, feels the mattress dip as he shifts.

"Babs."

"Hmm." She doesn’t open her eyes, thinks maybe this pillow talk can wait until morning, and gives him a minute to reply her sound of acknowledgement.

Dick takes a breath, the note of his inhale off just so, and she cracks an eye open for a glimpse of him, only catching his blurred silhouette, dark where the light slipping in through the blinds doesn’t reach him.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Barbara withholds the urge to tell him he just did, because it always makes him roll his eyes and she teases him about it because she knows he hates that reply, sometimes. She closes her eye and hums again, nestling into her pillow. Dick moves closer, infringing on her territory, her side of the bed.

" _Barbara_.”

She lets out a breath, digging her elbow into the mattress beneath her and opens her eyes as she goes to prop herself up. The last time they played this game, this _can I ask a question_ it was something dumb, and then another time it turned in her rolling over just for him to kiss her and say goodnight. She's kind of hoping it's the latter, really.

"Yes, Dick, ask away; what are you—"

And then she sees the ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we did it, folks! we may have been late a couple of times but we made it through the week! thank you guys for sticking with me!
> 
> BUT ALSO this isn't the end our dickbabs, and yes this all culminates and is being continued in a bigger fic, so we're not done with dickbabs just yet. it's only fair to forewarn you that it's gonna hurt though, lmao.


End file.
